Mix And Match
by Society's Failure
Summary: 100 Themes Challenge for DA2. No order, some will be AU, some short, some long, take your pick. MariBela, Fenrrett, Carrill others LATEST #58 - Kick In The Head - Hawke comes home injured, and Isabela deals with her wounded lover accordingly.
1. You Kiss The Way You Fight

**Title:** 100 Themes Challenge #52 – _Deep In Thought (You Kiss The Way You Fight)_

**Pairing:** Marian/Isabela

**Word Count**: 689

**Summary**: Marian sits in front of the fire when she thinks, and Isabela sneaks in when she wants.

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><p>Sitting cross legged in front of the fireplace in her room, she looked into what was left of the dancing flames, thinking of the situation she knew she had to confront tomorrow. Being the go-to person of Kirkwall had started to take its toll on her, and she found she needed these periods of contemplation just to make it through each day without biting someone's head off— needlessly, of course. Though she had never resorted to that particular method of beheading.<p>

Her shoulders slumped forward as she sighed. Hawke was not looking forward to visiting the Arishok come morning. She watched as a particular coal jump apart with a crack. This city was just as unpredictable as fire. And she felt it was all she could do to keep it from falling into war on itself. Resting her head in her hands, she inhaled deeply. What would happen if she just didn't meet with the Qunari leader? Took on the role as a regular, snobbish, selfish noble instead?

Snorting, she laughed at the empty air.

"If I didn't know you better, I might think you were losing it, dear."

The warrior started, and glanced over her shoulder. The languid, tanned form of the pirate perched itself on the edge of the bed before beginning the strenuous process of taking off her thigh-high boots. Leaning back on her hands, Hawke watched with a smirk, finding the task amusing. She didn't even question the woman's presence; Bodahn simply allowed her in by this time, and though the door had been locked, she could hardly expect it to keep out the rogue.

"But since you do know me better?" she questioned, voice drawling. Isabela paused and looked up, smiling charmingly as she set the boots to the side.

"I know you've already had your brains dashed out and are in need of someone to care for you." The rogue stood, curling and uncurling her freed toes into the carpet with a light laugh before sauntering over to where she sat.

Hawke stuck out her lower lip in a pout. She tilted her head back to watch her approach upside down, but didn't drop the act as the talented, roguish hands reached down to use her shoulders as a support as she bent over her, amber eyes gleaming with mischief while her face hovered inches above the seated woman's own. "Isabela, you're so mean to— mmmf!" The Rivaini caught the offending lip between her teeth and playfully tugged, eliciting a surprised groan from the raven-haired woman. She smirked, and released her only to kiss the bite better.

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about, Hawke," she murmured against her lips, digging her nails briefly into her shoulders. The warrior gasped, leaving her mouth open for the pirate to plunder, to which she took full advantage of. Slipping her tongue past, she found quick opposition in her partner, and was soon beaten back to her own side. After a moment she pulled away, pleased to hear the sound of protest from the other.

"You kiss how you fight," she observed before sidling around to Hawke's front, and lowering herself to sit practically in her cross-legged lap. A hand went to the back of the warrior's neck, running through the short locks of hair, while the other began to push down the shoulder of her robe.

"Is that a…" She stumbled over her words as Isabela slung her right leg over her left, pulling herself up higher. While her darkened blue eyes lowered themselves to the pirate's chest, her hand went to the booty, using it to hold her close. "A bad thing?" she finished, her voice slightly gravely.

"Hmmmm…" the rogue hummed mock-thoughtfully, her hand dragging down the edge of her robe tantalizingly slow, moving towards the center of her chest. Hawke inhaled sharply as the hand squeezed her breast. "It means you're fast and strong and take control of the situation without much difficulty." Her voice was a seductive whisper in her ear, and she could practically hear the smirk as it spread across her full lips. "It's a good thing."


	2. The Dance

**Title:** 100 Themes Challenge #71 – _Obsession (The Dance)_

**Pairing:** Implied Marian/Isabela

**Word Count**: 788

**Summary**: Hawke always seems to be sitting in a corner, and finally Varric finds out why.

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><p>Hawke was well-known to be found at the Hanged Man, sitting in the corner by the stairs, her bright eyes watching the going ons while everybody else got drunk and… Did whatever drunks did. Card games full of cheating, off tune singing, and the occasional bar brawl worked as entertainment, each interspersed with typically heavy drinking.<p>

Such was the case tonight, as she lounged back in her chair until it was propped between the floor and the wall, her heavy warrior armour, for the most part, discarded save for a thick leather jerkin over her notmal clothes. Just in case, she always told herself. A wooden cup in her hands and a chattering, beardless, chest-hair flaunting dwarf by her side, the Fereldan looked every bit like the predator she was often compared to, searching for something that nobody else could see, something she would tell no one she was looking for.

The door to the tavern opened, and instantly a cheer went up from the group right by the bar.

"_Isabela!"_they called. Even from across the room Hawke could hear the smirk on the pirate queen's face as she laughed, low and almost seductive, like everything else she seemed to do.

The chair returned all four legs on the ground, and the raven-haired woman leaned forward with her elbows on the table in front of her. Her attention, so occupied by what seemed to be nothing before, was now completely stolen away by the new centerpiece of the room.

Varric saw that look in his friend's eye a lot, now that he recognized it. It was the look she got when she found something she wanted. A slight smirk just barely tugged at the corner of her mouth, eyes shone with excitement for the challenge or thrill that would go with her conquest, her hands constantly trying to keep themselves busy in an attempt to force them into calm…

And as a storyteller, he had to be keen; he had to be able to notice the ties between that look and the entrance of the Rivaini.

"So. The Fereldan wishes to loot the pirate's booty, eh?" he said after a moment of silence, breaking Hawke's concentration. She straightened in her chair, and with a slight cough she look away from the rogue woman at the bar.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Varric. There's a pint over there that's being abandoned, and I was just thinking that it—"

"You haven't finished your own, so shut up and keep watching, lovergirl," the dwarf laughed, to which Hawke made a face at him. He shrugged, and smirked. "Romance always adds an interesting twist to a hero's tale. Especially the kinds with pirates of questionable repute."

Hawke shook her head, and looked away from the storyteller. That was the last thing she really needed, was more stories floating around Kirkwall about her… Her eyes returned to their former target, who was now showing one of the drunk mercenaries how to dance to a tune that was horribly off-beat. Isabela was naturally sensual, her hips swaying and arms moving as she stepped in time, but it wasn't her curves or entrancing grace that Hawke notice— oh no.

It was that confident smile. The one Isabela held onto when she didn't notice, when she was too busy doing something else to adopt something of a less innocent nature instead. The rogue really was not a good multitasker.

Hawke watched the pirate for the whole duration of the dance, enthralled by the view and feeling safe in her corner with a cup of alcohol between her and everybody else. Even Varric's talk about the upcoming expedition didn't break her from her reverie.

The music slowed and stopped, leaving Isabela with her hands high in the air, back arched and one foot slightly in front of the other. A moment passed, where everybody in the room seemed to finally take a breath, and then the pirate laughed. A cheer went up again, this time calling for drinks.

And it was in that short moment, when nothing was said, that the dancer had met the eyes of her far away observer, that same smile on her lips as her hands fell to sit atop her head. Her face was slightly flushed from the exertion of her dance, and her golden eyes gleamed as they fixated on the blue of the woman across the room. Hawke's breath caught in her throat, and she returned the smile with one of her own until her dancer was stolen away to the bar, her visual blocked by the masses of men.

From that night on, Varric knew why Hawke sat in the corner facing towards the door.


	3. Always For You

**Title:** 100 Themes Challenge #14 – _Smile (Always For You)_

**Pairing:** Marian/Isabela

**Word Count**: 410

**Summary**: Hawke has taken to drunk nights at the Hanged Man. But one night she's pleasantly surprised.

**Note**: I do what I want and I WILL finish this challenge god damnit.

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><p>It was another regular night at the Hanged Man for Hawke.<p>

Another cup of booze, another stool at the bar, another evening spent lamenting over the ache in her chest.

_"Shit…" s_he murmured under the bustling havoc of the regular Wednesday activities, which currently consisted of a red-bearded dwarf attempting to sing, a group of sailors playing an awfully loud game of Wicked Grace, and a pissing contest between a rabble of men by the fireplace as they told their stories. Squeezing the cup in her hand as she stood, the Champion raised it to her mouth to swallow the rest of its contents, savouring the burn as it ran down her throat and into her stomach, helping to mask the hurt on the way.

"So, does the whiskey still taste like rat shit?"

Her heart skipped a beat. Her breath hitched. Every muscle in her body froze of its own accord, leaving her barely able to look to the side, where a tanned figure now stood leaning against the bar as if it were just game night from before.

_Before_ meaning before the Qunari attack. _Before_ meaning before Hawke had confronted the Arishok. _Before_meaning before Isabela left, then came back with the Relic, handed it over as the greatest symbol of loyalty to her lover, and then left _again _without even waiting for her to wake up after winning her duel.

The pain in her chest— the one that had weighed down inside of her heart consistently for the past three years— lifted in the wake of the smirk her lady pirate gave. Her body became her own again, joy moving her as she stepped in the rogue's direction to embrace her as tight as she could. With one hand clenching at the back of her tunic and the other fisting into her hair, the warrior clenched her eyes shut as she buried her face into the other woman's shoulder.

_"Isabela_," she breathed, hardly audible over the sounds of the tavern around them.

She could feel the lips of the pirate, now pressed high against her cheek, tilt up into a smile as arms wrapped around her waist to reciprocate the hug.

"Don't tell me you've gone and gotten drunk without me?" Isabela asked with a laugh. Hawke felt her heart soar at the sound.

"You've come back," was the reply, to which a moment of silence stretched between them.

"… I came back for you. _Always_ for you."


	4. For My Eyes

**Title:**100 Themes Challenge #37 - _Eyes_

**Rating:**T

**Pairing:**F!Hawke/Isabela

**Word Count:**375

**Summary:**A bedridden Marian wants Isabela to try on a nice dress.

**Note: **_This is me trying to figure out what I want from my headcanon F!Hawke/Isabela couple excuse their spam._

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><p>"Please, Isabela?"<p>

"Don't you use that tone of voice with me!"

"I don't know what you're talking about. But... It would make me very happy if you put on that dress... And help with the pain..."

"Hawke!"

Isabela glared at her bedridden lover, who sat propped against the pillows with her left arm pinned to her torso in bandages. She felt a pang of guilt stab at her chest; it was her carelessness that had led to Hawke interfering in the battle, resulting in the deep gash down her arm and another across her hip. The woman's sapphire eyes pouted across the bed at her pirate, playful and pathetic in that innocent way she had that got her what she wanted.

"It's just a dress. Please, Isabela? For me?" Marian pleaded again.

The tanned woman deliberated for a moment. She stood with a huff, grabbed the dress off the edge of the bed, and stomped out of the bedroom, not giving the wounded rogue the satisfaction of watching her change. Hawke grinned to herself as she watched the disgruntled pirate leave, and waited patiently for her return.

Which, Maker's breath, was worth the wait.

"Isabela..." she breathed, eyes gawking at the dress-clad woman as she stepped lightly into the door, looking uncomfortable with every step she took. "You look..."

"Like an uppity Lady with nothing better to do than frown down at people like me," she snorted, smoothing the burgundy satin down her front.

"I was going to say gorgeous." Marian waved her to the bedside, and Isabela obliged, sticking out her tongue as she sat next to the rogue.

"No one will ever see this, or else you'll have more to worry about than dwarf assassins and bandits," she threatened, leaning close to Hawke. The Champion smirked, giving her another once over before she tilted her face up. Isabela shook her head, but kissed the corner of the offered mouth, running the tip of her tongue along her lover's bottom lip despite knowing such actions would go nowhere when she was in such a state. Marian rose her hand to run her fingers through the chocolate locks of hair, pulling her away to whisper something softly.

"I like you for my eyes only, anyway."


	5. Being Stupid

**Title: **100 Themes Challenge #38 - _Abandoned_

**Rating: **T

**Pairing: **F!Hawke/Isabela

**Word Count: **645

**Summary: **Hawke is getting healed after a solo quest. One that Anders labels as reckless. But being stupid is the only way she can distract herself.

**Note: **_This would be during the time between Act 2 and 3. Just something I thought of this morning, derp. I do plan on writing a long F!Hawke/Isabela fic soon, and this is kind of like a warm-up, I guess._

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><p>"<em>Maker<em>, Anders! Be careful with the poking!"

Marian Hawke found herself sitting on the edge of an examination table, her fingernails digging into the wooden edge as the healer inspected the gash that ran from her left hip to her mid-back. Sure, she could take hoards of dragonlings and a handful of dragons, but put her in the clinic and she was a wincing little pansy.

"Maybe if you didn't go out to the Bone Pit—"

"It was for five sove—"

"—_alone_—"

"Everybody was busy!"

"—I would have to do _this,_" he had found a claw that had detached itself in her side, and ripped it out hard enough to bring tears, "right now."

Taking deep breaths in and out to try and calm herself, Hawke blinked away the moisture gathering at the corners of her bright blue eyes. A soothing cold started where the burning pain was centered, and spread throughout her body. She relaxed against the healing magic, her grip on the table's edge loosening. The next few minutes went silent, with Anders stitching together her flesh and magicking away infection.

"There. All done," he announced as he stood in front of her, examining his work. Hawke stood carefully, slowly twisting at the hip to test the healed wound. When no pain flared, she peered at the puckered skin of the scar that not even magic could dispel. Anders crossed his arms over his chest, looking expectantly at her. When she noticed, she raised a brow at him.

"What do you want, Anders? A kiss from a lovely, sweat-drenched lady in nothing but bandages and trousers? I wouldn't want to get blood on your feathers," she told him with a playful grin, slipping her shirt over top of her bound chest. He scowled disapprovingly at her.

"Hawke. What were you doing out there?" he asked her, a sad note in his voice. She tensed at the sincerity, but shied away from it.

"Killing shit, killing shit, yeah," she sang at him, putting back on her armour for the way back to her estate.

"Why'd you go without one of us? At least… _Fenris_or even _Merrill_. Just somebody to watch your back, since you obviously can't yourself," he exclaimed, worried gold eyes shooting down to address where he knew the healed wound to be.

"Oh, you know me, Anders. Always wanting the glory for myself." She refused to drop the play act in front of him. Not right now. She buckled her dagger sheaths down, and replaced them back into the holders.

"That's a lie and you know it, Hawke."

"I was bored?" His scowl deepened, and she offered him an unapologetic smile. She shrugged, tightening her belt with a chuckle.

"She wasn't on that ship that came in yesterday, was she?"

His words struck home. The Champion grew silent and stiffened, her hands clenching into fists. Her jaw flexed noticeably, and she took a moment to formulate a reply.

"Don't bring it up, Mage." The distance she had placed between them in that instance, separating the two normally close friends, threw him off guard. His brow furrowed over his eyes, and he felt the concern for her rise.

"Hawke, you're not fooling anybody with this charade! Isabela isn't coming ba—"

Within the time it took for the sound of a dagger being unsheathed to echo away, a cold blade was pressed very loosely against the back of his neck, a plume of smoke dissipating in front of him. He tensed against the steel.

"Don't talk about it again."

The pressure disappeared, and the mage could only sigh as the lithe form of the Champion left through the doors of the clinic to merge with the shadows.

He wouldn't see the tears of ache and misery that fell down her face at the mention of her pirate.


	6. Fire Thoughts

**Title:**100 Themes Challenge #_73 – I Can't (Fire Thoughts)_

**Pairing:** Mage!M!Hawke/Fenris

**Word Count:** 413

**Summary:** Fenris has left Kirkwall, and is alone one night, left to think about what he is trying to forget.

**Note: **_Shut up this is my canon and I don't even know where this would canon-ly fit. Prolly in the gap between Act 2 and 3, when Fenris is like "lol can't do this." Another one from Garret's pov, same situation, next prolly._

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><p>"<em>Why won't you let me love you?"<em>

The voice repeated itself in Fenris's head, over and over and over again. The same line… The same argument. The warrior scowled at the fire he sat in front of, twisting his torn tunic in his hands.

He had left to try and escape the voice. The constant reminder of what he had, but felt he didn't deserve. No, _knew _he didn't deserve. He had tried to tell him that. Tried to explain… But Garret didn't know how to listen. He just smiled _that _smile, and told him what he should have wanted to hear.

"_You may not feel like you deserve me, but I want you. Shouldn't that be enough?" _

"_No! It's not! I'm not right, Hawke. You need somebody who can offer you… More."_

"_Well, I think your tattoos are hot. Aesthetic appeal is enough for me."_

Why didn't he understand? Fenris wasn't right. He was a mess of emotions, memories, forever stuck in his past by the constant reminders burned into his flesh, but also by the mystery behind them. He couldn't get away from it; he couldn't allow himself to be fully in the present, to devote himself to something other than the escape that had become his life. Danarius haunted his dreams, the pain created a barrier between him and everything that tried to get close… The bitterness he felt towards mages alone should have been enough to completely repel him away from the apostate.

But no. He had flashed his charm, made jokes, tried to include Fenris into something that he had never experienced (or so he could remember). He had been an ear to listen to the few things he could recall, a comforting, soothing voice in times that he wanted nothing to do with anything. Times he would have liked to drink away the misery before running to the slavers, swords swinging. But Hawke… Was just… There.

Always reliable, always a figure that stood for the greater good, always full of smart remarks and his usual smirk; he was the Champion. And yet he had asked Fenris to _let _him love him.

No. He couldn't let Garret throw away his life on a man—not even, really; the broken soul of an elf—like him. But oh, how he wanted to…

Fenris threw the ripped tunic to the side, and rested his head in his hands, clenching his jaw as the frustration built inside.

Maker _damn_ that man.


	7. Sharing Warmth

**Title:**100 Themes Challenge #_30 – Under The Rain_

**Rating:**K

**Pairing:**Merrill/Isabela Friendship

**Word Count:**230

**Summary:**Garret leaves Isabela and Merrill to go back and get something, but it's a cold, rainy day, and Isabela is always under dressed.

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><p>"Isabella...?"<p>

"Y-yes, Kitten?"

"Are you cold?"

Merrill's innocent eyes were pooling over with the concern that she held for her pirate friend. Isabela tried to laugh it off, but another shake cut her off with clattering teeth. Trying to huddle her frigid form as small as possible to retain body heat, she shivered again as a strong gust of wind blew cold into her face.

"A l-little, yes, but I'll be fine. Hawke'll return soon so we can continue on," she replied, trying to soothe the elf's nerves. She failed. Merrill stood from her seat near the mouth of one of the many caves peppering the face of Sundermount, rain pounding down beyond, and took the place directly to the Rivaini's right. Her tawny eyes narrowed in question, but she said nothing as the dainty mage wrapped her arms around her waist, and snuggled in close.

"What are you doing, Merrill?" she asked, not complaining about the seating arrangement (because Maker bless she was like her own personal heater), but unsure how to react.

"Garret told me once that he and Fenris like to share warmth with each other, especially at night! So I figured we could, too!" Merrill said with a grin tilted up at her companion, looking pleased with herself. Isabela blinked, but laughed after a moment, hugging Merrill close while petting her hair fondly.

"Thank you, Kitten."


	8. I Miss The Trees

Title:100 Themes Challenge #22 – _Mother Nature (I Miss The Trees) _

Rating: K

Pairing: Carver/Merrill

Word Count: 302

Summary: Carver and Merrill meet in the Hanged Man, and discuss… Trees.

**Note: **_Sometime in Act 3, with Carver as a Templar._

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><p>"I miss the trees!"<p>

Carver blinked, and laughed into his mug. He had met with Merrill at the Hanged Man by the chance of a fluke; he had been looking for his elder brother to inform him of a new report of blood mages said to be lurking around the Wounded Coast, and she had been looking for Isabela. Hellos had turned into a drink on him, and a brief sit down had turned into hours of talking and laughing, sharing stories and personal experiences.

"The trees?" he asked, a grin glued on his face. His blue eyes fixed onto her green, twinkling with a bubbly sort of excitement, but with the ache for something mixed in.

"Yes! The leaves, branches, climbing in them. Back in Ferelden, we had a talking oak in the forest and he was fantastic! He even rhymed." The elf sighed happily as she drowned herself in the memories of her past, long ago. "I think that's one of the things I would change about Kirkwall. More trees and plants and gardens. Everything is so brown! That, and I think there should be more colour. Like paintings on the walls! It would be great, don't you think, Carver?" She looked at him expectantly, bringing him into her imaginary better world.

"I think it would be fantastic, Merrill," he said with another smile.

She rose early the following morning, a spring in her already cheerful step as she gathered her gardening supplies before heading over to the Hawke estate to weed. But as she closed her front door behind her, she was greeted with a sight that surprised her enough to stop her in her tracks. Laughter bubbled out of her.

Just outside her door, a sapling had been planted, green leaf buds reaching towards the rising dawn.


	9. Alone

**Title: **100 Themes #92 - _All That I Have_

**Rating: **K

**Word Count: **830

**Summary: **Merrill thinks back on her life, past and present.

**Note:** I just really like depressing stuff sometimes. 8D

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><p>"Is that supposed to be dirty?"<p>

The rest of the present company laughed at the question, tears at the corners of their eyes. She supposed it was mostly brought on by the alcohol they were drinking, because she didn't recall making a joke.

"Oh, Kitten. Maybe one day you'll understand," Isabella said with a pat on her shoulder, a dark shimmer in her amber eyes. Merrill saw Varric shake his head at the pirate disapprovingly.

"But I..." she protested, trailing off when she realized that the next topic of conversation had been found in the form of a sparking debate between Fenris and Anders.

No one really noticed when she got up from her end seat, leaving behind the laughter and camaraderie in an untouched mug of something she could barely stand the smell of, let alone drink. No one noticed when she left the hot, smelly tavern in favour of the cold, biting air that blew in from the docks, laden with salt and that vague concept of freedom that Isabela had described to her.

It was hard to feel free in a place that felt so much like a prison.

Or maybe this was freedom. Maybe this broken, corrupted place, full of violence and cheating and a lack of the slightest ounce of honour or care... Maybe this was the freedom she had always pined for.

It felt just like the camp.

In the essence of it, at least. She was forced to conform to the rules, even more so than others because of her rank. She had no friends; she was too busy learning about the past, about things that no one even cared for thanks to the pollution of human influence on their kind. She was exiled in every way save the most literal because of her project, her desire to return to the people what had been lost to them; a hope of returning a piece of what they had once been! They all accepted her as one of their own, but they pitied her regardless. Even the Keeper.

She walked along the dark alleyways of Lowtown, her thoughts more on the past than her current destination.

The blood mage recalled a time when she had been younger, before she was even chosen at the First. The other children had been playing a game. Something along the lines of hide and seek, as she would later find the humans would call it. She was invited to play.

So she hid. She hid in a fair spot; in a tree, so it would be easy to see her if they looked, but not obvious. She had thought she was so clever for picking it as a hiding spot, for finally getting a chance to show she could be a good playmate for the rest of them.

They left her by herself for hours, sitting alone in the tree. The Keeper's shouts for her were what made her realize that she had been made a fool of. The other children were punished for being cruel. She overheard their reasons, though. And they still stung to the day.

"_But she's not like us, Keeper."_

"_She's so odd."_

"_Something's wrong with her."_

Merrill shook her head, blinking away the tears in her eyes.

She was not accepted in the Dalish. She tried to learn magic, was chose to be the First. They allowed her presence, but nothing further. No acceptance. She mastered her skills, grew to understand their history. They did not care. Nothing she did gave her approval. She could only go down.

It was still the same.

The day Hawke met her, she had frowned on her use of blood magic. It had started a rivalry with the human mage that Merrill did not understand. Anders thought she ignorant. Said she was not careful, didn't understand what she was doing. Hypocrite. Fenris hated mages in general, even though he didn't understand. Oh well. Varric disapproved of her obsession with the mirror, and gave her that _look. _It was the same one the Keeper had used on her. Isabela tried to protect her, but the elf knew she would whisper with Varric and Aveline, lament on how sad her situation was and how awful her only driving force was a broken piece of historical trash.

The disapproval, the looks, the very fact they couldn't even explain a simple _joke _to her...

She was alone.

She walked down the steps to the Alienage, crossing the area in front of their, for she did not consider herself one of the city elves in any form, tree to her house, slipping inside without a sound.

She had always been alone.

She walked to the Eluvian, sat down in front of it, and stared at the broken reflection. Pulling her knees to her chest, she tucked her chin between them, leaving her eyes open to gaze at the shattered glass. She watched herself begin to cry, but didn't realize otherwise.

She would always be alone.


	10. Power

**Title:** 100 Themes Challenge #46 – _Family (Power)_

**Pairing**: Carver/M!Hawke

**Rating: **M

**Word Count:** 1,188

**Summary:** Carver used to hate his brother. Now… Their relationship is… tolerable.

_**Note**__: There is slash incest in the following fic, herpaderp. You guys might hate me or whatever for this, but it's what I chose to write about and if you don't like it there is a handy dandy little back button up top. :'D Aka I don't care I'll keep writing what I want. And also they are so OOC I don't know what to do with myself BUT OH WELL. Written because it was the idea given to me by a friend D;_

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><p>Carver used to despise his brother.<p>

Since they were children, Garret created a shadow that he couldn't escape from. He was always more handsome, always so smooth, saying all the right things, never doing anything wrong… He was a natural people-person, swooned after among the village girls and the leader of the boys.

Garret was everything that Carver could never be. No matter how hard he tried, the younger Hawke knew that, deep down, no one would look at him and want to bow their heads in adoration and respect, no one would name him champion of anything, no one would plead for him to come to the rescue.

Maybe that was why he loved hearing Garret _beg _him for more so fucking much.

What would Kirkwall say if they knew that their beloved _Champion_ was brought to his knees by none other than the _overshadowed_ Carver?

He could remember the first time that it had happened.

"Why are you letting him stay?" he had asked Garret after confronting him in their home in Lowtown. Leandra and Gamlen were out with old family friends, attempting to gain some reputation for the family name.

"We need a healer, Carver. He's the best we can get," Garret had replied. He laughed.

"Right. Meaning you just want a quick fuck."

The older Hawke had stiffened, and whipped around to glare at him.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Carver had laughed again.

"Bullshit, Garret. You're not fooling anybody, with your trips to Darktown to 'help the needy.' I wouldn't be surprised if—"

"Shut up, Carver." The mage had growled, feeling heat rise in his face.

"Why? It's true! He's going to be the end of us all with his stupid manifesto and _Justice_, and it'll all be because you needed someone to screw." Garret threw a punch at him then, which Carver promptly caught, and pushed him back against the wall. "What? You mad because I'm right? I bet he doesn't even do the job right. Who takes it, huh? I'd bet him, but I think that's giving you too much credit."

The rage on Garret's face had made him feel like he was finally on top. Finally winning. For once in his life, he was beating his brother and no one could take that from him.

"No come back? So you _do _get fucked like a cheap broad. Why don't you just go to the Rose? It'd be—"

"If you're so _great_, Carver, prove you can do any fucking better! You've done nothing but be a whiny little _shit_ since the day you were born. Shut the fuck up and _do_ something about it for once in your damned life!"

Carver shouldn't have taken the challenge literally. He should have backed down right then, and left to go take out his anger on something else, anything else.

But he didn't.

He lunged forward, crushing his lips against Garret's, grinding their hips together. The desperate sound his elder brother made, deep in the back of his throat, only pushed him forward. Anger and borderline hate drove him forward, to the cot and to an ultimate end.

Days after the event, they did not speak. Garret left for the Deep Roads, and he joined the Templars. He still had that feeling inside… The one that whispered to him at night, telling him he had finally gotten the upper hand. So when _the _Hawke returned to Kirkwall, arms full of riches and glory enough to gain an estate and place amongst the court as a noble, Carver made it an objective to reassert himself. To 'do something about it,' as Garret had told him.

It grew to be expected. Whenever he had time away from the Order and he caught the mage alone, he proved just how much _more _he was than him. It didn't matter that it was wrong on so many levels, or that if anybody had found out, it would have ruined them both. All that mattered was that finally he was out of that Maker forsaken shadow.

This night was no different from any of the rest. Leandra was out with her old friends, and Bodahn and Sandal were out running special errands. When he walked through the large doors of the estate, up the stairs, and to his brother's bedroom, he was not surprised to find Garret still up at his writing desk, scrawling out a letter to someone he didn't care for.

"Carver." The voice was dripping with a seething anger, but all he could so was smirk in reply; sure, he said his name like that _now…_ "Why are you here?"

"To give you the fucking your pretty little magelet can't?" he shot back, watching as Garret clenched his jaw. A moment passed before he stood, placing his quill next to the paper carefully. "I wonder if he knows he can't screw you like I can." He grinned darkly.

"Shut the fuck up," he growled, his hands curling into fists.

"Why? What're you going to do?" Carver taunted, stepping forward until he stood face to face with the mage. "Something tells me you won't tell me no. It might have something to do with the way you screamed like a bitch in heat, last time." Garret glared into the blue eyes in front of him for a second, but cast his gaze to the side. He couldn't even deny it! Ha. Maker knew how much his body just _wanted _it. "The great _Hawke _himself, speechless. What I wouldn't—"

He was silenced by Garret's mouth, covering his own as hands reached up to grab at his hair. Carver smirked against the kiss, pushing him back until the backs of his legs hit the edge of the desk. He used one hand to scatter the things on top, clearing the space, and the other to grab the mage's crotch.

"Already hard for me, huh? I haven't even been here five minutes, _brother,"_ Carver murmured against his skin, moving his mouth down to bite at the junction of his shoulder and neck. Garret moaned at the pain and the rubbing of his erection through his trousers, sending Carver on a high of power-filled dominance. Maker, it felt so _good_ in all the completely wrong ways. "Show a bit of _self-control," _he whispered, emphasizing the last two words with a squeeze of the older man's cock.

"Just do it," Garret panted, amber eyes closed as he shuddered under his brother's rough, angry touch. The warrior moved his hands to his hips, flipping him so he lay bent over the desk. Hawke grunted, looking over his shoulder as Carver fumbled for the jar of lubricant he already knew to be in the desk's left drawer.

It was the look in the golden eyes, that utter _desperation_ and _need_ for him that made this so worth it. The fact that with every thrust the strong, all-powerful man of Kirkwall moaned _his _name. Every bruising touch he gave, every mark he left on his skin…

Carver used to despise his brother.

Now he _loved_ every second they spent together.


	11. Ser ViciousBeak

**Title: **100 Themes Challenge #83 - _Heal_

**Rating: **K

**Pairing: **Carver/Merrill

**Word Count: **1,589

**Summary: **Carver finds a injured bird, and tries to find a way to fix it up... While also visiting someone he still hasn't forgotten.

**Note: **_My Carver is a templar; I picture this to be sometime during Arc 3; let us pretend that Anders never accidentally the Chantry, and everybody lives in peace... For this drabble._

* * *

><p>"<em>Oh Maker, what am I doing..."<em>

Carver sped along the alleyways of Lowtown, a basket covered with a small cloth in his hands. Trying to keep his gait as steady as possible, he winced when every now and then the basket gave a small "_cheep" _of what he presumed was protest.

It probably wasn't the smartest idea he had ever come up with, to journey through the criminal-infested district of Kirkwall... In the middle of the night... In casual, armourless clothing... Without any weapon but a knife tucked into his boot that he couldn't even access due to his hands being full. Yeah. Way to go, Carver. But if it was for a good cause, it was okay to dismiss his moment of stupidity, right?

Or at least he hoped it could be considered a good cause. He wasn't sure if Garret, as protective to an overbearing extent as he was despite the fact the younger Hawke had proven himself capable time and time again, would accept "I needed to save the sparrow I found injured after the storm last night" as an acceptable reason if his little brother turned up dead with a dagger between his ribs. But who could just let a baby bird... die?

He had found it that morning, when he had walked out of the templars' barracks on his way to the training grounds. Well... Heard, more so. After having stepped out of the building and allowing his eyes to adjust to the pre-dawn darkness, the sound of the distressed chirping coming from the base of the wall captured his attention. Following the sound, the warrior got on his hands and knees, looking for the source. And when he found the baby sparrow, one of its wings bent at an odd angle, he couldn't help but feel bad for it (despite the fact when he reached out for it, it pecked and snapped its beak into his fingers, drawing blood). It had probably been swept from its nest into the heavy storm of last night, and ended up there.

So, he rushed it back inside to his room, put a soft cloth to act as bedding in the base of a basket, ripped up a biscuit from his breakfast for it to eat through the day, and covered it with another cloth before going to the training session with the new recruits he had been instructed to lead by the Knight-Captain.

The bird had been on his mind all day. Taking it into his quarters had been a reflex reaction, something he hadn't... Fully thought through. What did he expect to do with it? Just leave it in the basket for the rest of time, sharing a biscuit a day? No. By lunch, he used the break to go back and check on the baby, staring into the make-shift container while tuning out the peeved cheeping in favour of thinking of a way to help it more.

He could... Bring it do Anders. Surely the healer would be able to do something for the broken thing. It didn't look all that bad; just an awkward bend of the wing. The beady little eyes fixated on him, and Carver shook his head. No, that wasn't an option. Even if the revolutionary _could_ help, he would never hear the end of it: _Carver Hawke! Saviour of baby animals! Quick, where's the next kitten stuck in a tree?_

Kitten... Isabela called Merrill 'Kitten.' What about Merrill? She was an elf, right? Had spent her years before Kirkwall in the forests of Ferelden, living in harmony with the animals there? And she knew magic. Maybe there was something she could do for the poor thing (which he had decided to name Ser Vicious-Beak).

And he'd like to have an excuse to see her anyway.

The thought made his ears burn a bit at the tips. It had been... Over a decade now, and still he'd never told her how he felt. And after he had become a full fledged templar... It just didn't seem like it was a possible outcome.

But she was his best bet for the survival of Ser Vicious-Beak... Well, at least that's what he would go on to tell himself after he decided he would go to her after night had fallen, hidden from the prying eyes of his fellow templars. It was a good reason, right? A life was at stake, here.

And that was how he found himself walking down the steps to the Alienage, sticking in the shadows as much as possible. Quickening his pace when her house came into view, he shushed the cheeps from the basket; silly bird was hardly being jostled at all...

Tucking Ser Vicious-Beak under one arm, Carver rapped his knuckles against the door, glancing over his shoulder at nothing out of nervousness. _Was she even home? What if she was already asleep? Oh Maker, this was a ba-_

"Carver?"

Sapphire eyes shot back to the door, now held slightly ajar. It took a moment to adjust to the sudden brightness exuding from her home, and even then he still felt stuck. The elf opened the door more, and smiled at him. His heart skipped a beat.

"I... Uhh... Hi, Merrill." Yes. That was the smoothest thing he could manage to say.

Her smile grew, and she looked... Honestly happy to see him. "Hi! What are you doing here? It's late, and you aren't even armed oooooh, Creators that's dangerous. You shouldn't risk yourself like that! Here, come inside, before the schleets get you!" Before he knew what exactly had just been said she was tugging on his arm, and had pulled him just past the doorway before closing it after him. The Hawke stood dazed, and momentarily forgot about the basket under his arm, despite its now almost frantic cheeping.

"Oooh, I am so sorry about the mess! I don't know why my house is never clean when people come over. I swear it is sometimes. Really!" she exclaimed, moving around the entry, stacking books in an effort to create some semblance of order in the disorganized wreck of paper and bindings, scrolls and writing utensils. He watched, mesmerized, until she stopped and seemed to remember something.

"But Carver, you still haven't said why you're here. Not that I've exactly given you a chance," she said quickly, stopping her sorting to look at him with an excitement in her eyes he never saw in his presence with anyone else. He tried to remember his reason, but was too captivated.

"Oh. Uhm... I..." he mumbled, shifting his weight back and forth awkwardly, his ears reddening while he tried to find an answer. The cheeping in the basket grew to be more like squalking, which brought her attention to it.

"Is there something in the basket? It sounds like it! I don't think you could make a sound like that, Carver, and if you could I'd be worried!" she laughed, emerald eyes flashing with merriment. He blinked, and looked down at the basket. It all came back to him now. He extended out the basket with both hands, an offering.

"I brought you a bird," he blurted out. "I uhm... I found it this morning and it's hurt and I was wondering if you could help it, maybe..." It was only as he said it did he realize how ridiculous he probably sounded.

"Oh, a bird? I've missed birds! You hardly see them around here, being in the city and all. I missed their music and watching them fly. They're such free creatures," she cheerfully replied, practically dancing forward to take the basket and flit back to the table to peek inside it. Carver stood still as he watched, unsure of what to do. After a moment, and a bit of Elven spoken that he didn't understand, Merrill turned and smiled at him.

"His wing is broken but it will mend with time. Do you want anything to drink or anything? Or something el-"

"Oh, no no no," he cut her off, laughing awkwardly. "I'm okay, but thank you. I really... Should be leaving."

He almost didn't catch the fall in her face. "Oh! Well uhm... Are you sure?" she asked him, sitting down at the table with an air of disappointment.

The question confused him. She... wanted him to stay? "Well... I just wanted to bring Ser Vicious-Beak to you..." he mumbled.

"Ser Vicious-Beak?" She laughed brightly. "That little thing? Surely not!"

"Oh, he is! That little monster was as ferocious as a blight wolf, I swear to the Maker," he remarked dryly, remembering with slight discontent the sore wounds on his fingers. The questioning look she gave him encouraged him to explain. "Well, when I found him, he was just sitting there, cheeping like he could just cheep to death anything that came near him..."

"I don't believe you! That little sweet bird couldn't harm a thing."

"Don't let his looks fool you! He's a beast." He smiled when she giggled, and walked over to the table, taking a seat across from her and with Ser Vicious-Beak's basket between them as he recounted the epic tale of that morning. He soon forgot he wasn't supposed to be there. He forgot that he should have gone. All he could think about was saying the things that made her laugh and gasp and smile, because it made him feel... Accomplished. But more than that. Something a lot more.

He would forever be thankful for Ser Vicious-Beak.


	12. Misunderstood

**Title:** 100 Themes Challenge #99 - _Solitude_

**Rating: **T because there's war bits?

**Words: **2,376 words

**Summary: **Carver reflects on his life, and his reasoning behind his choices and what he has become.

**Note: **Massive spoilers for Dragon Age 2, though would be right before end of Act 3. If you don't want spoilers, don't read it plz. Also this is _my_ version of Carver; I think he has a lot underneath, and this is obviously with a rivaled elder Hawke sibling who is kind of bitchy but shhhh. Let the boy be sad, please. Prolly a lot of mistakes, I didn't read through for errors, so don't shoot me. D:

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><p>"Maybe if you spent less time at the Rose or with your <em>templar<em> friends, you'd know what was going on."

The words stung worse than Carver believed was intended. But the bottom line was that they _were_ intended to sting and bite, and coming from Anders... It was no question. The others of their ragtag crew stood in the library of the Hawke estate, looking away from the scene between the two men awkwardly.

"Would you just tell what's wrong with my sister?" the younger Hawke growled at the healer, his fists clenching at his sides. The flash of anger in his eyes, reminiscent of the Champion's, was enough to elicit an answer.

"She'll live. Minor injuries, but she'll be fine."

He nodded, and turned on his heel to leave.

No one protested.

It was always easier to relax when he wasn't there.

He knew that. He created an atmosphere of argument, complete with sparks ready to fly and spitting comments prepared to fire. But he when he had heard from the Knight-Captain that the Champion of Kirkwall had been ambushed by slavers while only in the presence of a glowing elf, Carver was not so uncaring for his sibling as to not check in on her.

In fact, the moment he had heard about it, he had requested to go and see his elder sister, regardless of the fact his watch shift was to start in a half hour's time. The new Knight-Captain had granted him the time, quickly assigning the patrol to a younger, newly knighted templar, and he had left that very moment. He had to know she was all right, even if he didn't see her.

Carver cared very much so for his sister. He loved her as the only person he had left in the Maker-forsaken world he lived in; as the one he had always rivalled in attempts to make himself better, to earn the respect of. He would defend her from anything and everything he could. That's all he had ever tried to do. It was his _duty_ as the _warrior_, as the only son of Malcolm Hawke, to try and protect his sisters, even when they didn't need it, what with their magic. But he had always tried, and had hoped it would be the thought that counted, despite the snarkiness he exhibited in efforts to separate himself from the shadow of _the _Hawke.

He walked through the arrogant buildings of Hightown, his thoughts wandering to past more than they were concentrated on the present.

The templar recalled a time when he had been younger, before his twin had been able to use her magic. Their father had wrapped an arm around their elder sister, smiled on her with pride. They were going to go into the forests next to Lothering to begin her training, so she could master her magic outside of the Circle's control. Bethany had been devastated that she wasn't big enough yet to learn, that she was going to be left behind.

Even as a child, Carver had always tried to protect her, make her feel better. He'd pulled her braid to get her attention off of the shrinking figures, and took her hand before guiding her towards the barn, where they would play Darkspawn and Gray Wardens with their toy staff and sword until she forgot all about her sadness. It worked. By the time father and Marian had returned, she had too many things to tell Papa about to bother begging to be taught spells, too.

But then four years passed. Bethany turned twelve, just as Marian had. Father put his arm around her shoulders, and their sister grinned at the addition to the mage training sessions. They all walked away, laughing and happy, into the woods. They left him alone, uncaring of what he did.

Father died. Carver was the only man left in the family; he had to protect his mother, his sisters. Had to make sure no one would suspect the apostates for what they were. He joined the King's Army, as a swordsman, spending the seasons after the harvest in the militia camps. He grew sarcastic, hardened, as a result of his sister trying to boss him around when it was he who had to go and make good relations with the Chantry there, make sure the templars liked their family enough to not investigate the odd rumours that were passed around if an accident happened, or Marian was uncaring.

He took care of the farm during the crop seasons, made sure it was in order, made sure the fields got ploughed and the crops got picked in time while his sisters practised their control to avoid detection, to make every effort to master their magic and conquer the alluring call of the demons. He didn't mind the lack of help; he would rather they remain safe. But the jabs at him being a worthless brute, even as a joke from his sister, hurt, and made him strive to prove himself worthy of the respect he felt he deserved, after years of ensuring their secrecy.

The King called for men to fight the Darkspawn. Carver jumped at the chance to serve at Ostagar, and show his ability, despite knowing the dangers involved. His mother begged him not to go, that it was far too dangerous. But he was already ready to leave, hugging his mother and twin while shouldering the disapproving look of Marian.

"_You're going to leave us in favour of a hopeless cause."_

He had turned around, gone to the door.

"_Abandon your family."_

She didn't see what he was doing as anything but a selfish act, in hopes of finding glory. He picked up his bag, strapped his sword to his back.

"_Have fun with the Darkspawn."_

A month passed before the Battle of Ostagar. He watched his friends die on patrols, tainted by the evil in the Darkspawn blood. He watched ogres rip men limb from limb, emissaries create walking bombs out of his comrades to kill others with the explosion... Blood. Blood and fire and screams everywhere. And all he could think about was his sister taunting him, chiding him for leaving. That, along with the ingrained will to protect his family, was the only thing that kept him going.

But then the King died. The Wardens were gone. And he ran. Carver ran and ran, because he was still alive and there was a _chance _he could get back and get his family out of Lothering. The hoard was on his heels, forcing him to fight for every inch he gained between he and them.

But he made it. He made it to his home, filthy and exhausted, and they left with what they could on their backs. And his sister took the lead, because she was _eldest_ and had the strongest magic. He didn't say anything, but followed dutifully, charging into battle whenever Darkspawn tried to get close, to endanger his family.

But he couldn't stop the ogre. He watched in horror as it pummelled Bethany to the ground, blood spray flying, until it flung her body to the side like a broken doll. His fighting was mechanical after that, the work of years of practise and repetition, but his mind was blank. He couldn't think straight. All he felt was a pit in his stomach open, sucking him in, no matter how hard he struggled to keep going.

They couldn't even give her a proper burial. They had to leave her there, a broken corpse. The callousness Marian exhibited, even if just to force them to press forward, sparked further resentment. Their rivalry grew in the gaping hole Bethany's death had left, which he blamed himself for. If only he had grabbed the ogre's attention first... If only it had been _him_ instead of sweet, innocent Bethany...

They got to Kirkwall, made it their home. He did as his sister wished of him, if only because he had nowhere else to place himself in the new world he was definitely not a part of. His mother tried to latch them back into the Amells; a time long past, with Gamlen's selling of their estate. But he still worked with Marian to get the fifty sovereigns, to go to the Deep Roads.

He no longer had his twin, but he still had to do his best to protect Marian from Kirkwall's Circle, no matter the risks she was taking. He voiced his dislike of the companions she chose, allowing them to join their rank without proper investigation. He tried to act as some sort of sense for her, but all it did was grant him the contempt of his sister and her new comrades, though with time he grew to terms with a few of them.

The expedition came upon them; Mother wished him to stay home, and Marian agreed. He stayed. It was hard to let her go into the danger alone; the protective instinct that had ingrained itself into his personality screamed in protest, telling him to go regardless of what they said. But with Mother being alone in Lowtown... He listened.

The realization that he needed a way to separate himself from his sister came soon after her departure for the Deep Roads. Aveline had refused him for the City Guard, but he was not turned down by the Templar Order. He joined them of his own free will, hoping to make some sort of difference in the infestation of malevolent blood mages in Kirkwall. His training with the King's Army gave him an advantage over the squires who were just starting, and his ability to endure spells from years of pranks by Marian set him apart.

The look on his sister's face when she returned was one of betrayal and hurt. She yelled at him. Called him a traitor to the Hawke name, told him never to come back. The only thing that kept their relationship from ending right there was Mother begging them to stop fighting.

Three years passed by like that, tension high strung between them as he worked hard in the Order, and became a full-fledged templar while she spread the name of Hawke throughout the ranks of Kirkwall. He was not accepted or welcomed in the Hawke estate. His snarky demeanour left him with next to no friends in the Order; and those who were not put off by it were of the "all mages must die" variety. He had no one close, but he didn't make efforts to fix that. He still met Mother for lunches weekly, and he looked forward the time he spent with her as a blessing.

And then she was taken from them. Another blood mage _took_ her—no_, murdered_ her_-_ and left Carver and Marian alone. In the joint guilt they both felt for her death—Marian for not getting there sooner, Carver for not having followed the lead, both for not looking after their mother closer—they mourned together, but past that their relationship remained the same.

Another three years passed; he spent his time hunting down malificarum, protecting the people of Kirkwall from their violence, and, as he found himself doing more and more as the abilities of his sister was told, keeping the Order from going after Marian. Sometimes he wondered if she thought about that; why she was not captured and forced into the Circle, for being an apostate. Was it just because she was Champion? Or perhaps his efforts, dismissing rumours and stealing away the written orders to go after her before burning them had some effect.

Carver walked through the high arch of the Gallows, the full moon illuminating the courtyard and the tall, bronze statues. He nodded at the men on duty, and walked into the Templar Hall alone. His thoughts laboured on, crushing him with the depression he realized had become his life. Entering his room in the barracks, he stared at the neat, tidy space in front of him. Everything was in order, from the sheets on his bed to the papers on his desk. His armour hung on the stand, the flame enveloped sword visible in the moonlight streaming from his window.

This was his life. This neat room, with its suit of templar armour, bare of anything else.

He moved to sit on the bed, and bent down to grab at something in the space between the mattress and the floor. Pulling out the box, he braced it on his knees before opening it carefully.

His fingers grazed over its contents, sorrow and a building emotion swelling in his throat. There was the locket they had found in the Amell estate... Bethany would have loved it. There was a book of Mother's, something random that he never read... But in between the pages she had flattened the flowers he and Bethany had given her over the years as children. She had kept them all. And lining the base of the box, protected by a sheet of glass and frame, there was a portrait of the Hawke family.

It was before Marian had turned twelve. Before the siblings grew apart. Before Father had died, before he had seen the horrors of war, before Bethany was broken into pieces and Mother murdered. Before he had lost the people he cared about most, one by one. Before he had turned into the callous, harsh man he was, before the relationship he had held with his only sibling turned into a rivalry only buffered from hate by their shared blood.

An explosion of a single water drop hit the glass, joined by another.

It was from a time that he could hardly remember. A time when he had belonged somewhere.

But now...

His shoulders shook as he mourned over a concept so vague and blurred, he couldn't explain.

It was a concept that he had lost, and could never get back.

He would just continue forth, like he always did, pretending nothing mattered.

He would carry on, acting like he didn't care. It's what was expected of him.

But he would go into his room and look at the box's contents, and realize every time just how alone he was.


	13. Short

**Title: **100 Themes Challenge #89 – _Through The Fire (Short)_

**Pairing**: None~ Just Marian

**Word Count**: 1,192

**Summary**: Marian loved her hair. She really did.

_**Note**__: BECAUSE EVEN THE CHAMPION CAN HAVE A GIRLY WISH. I did not come up with this completely on my own. -heart- A very wonderful person did, and I said I would write it. So here it is, for her._

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><p>Marian Hawke was always teased for being boyish.<p>

For her tendency to play in the dirt and mud, to beat down the boys... For her large figure, awkward until she grew into it, and rough way of talking. She didn't like dolls, and preferred to play 'Adventure' with the village boys, running around slaying dragons and demons with her stick swords, and after she came into her magic, her staff. Her father would laugh and only ever commented on her bravery, and tenacity in the face of her male counterparts. He was proud of her resolve to beat them all. When she was younger, it didn't bother her so much. She was accepted like that; it was just how it was. And it was fine.

But there was one thing that she prided herself in, so distinctly feminine and a mark of her sex that she coveted it with an enthusiasm not understood by her friends or her siblings.

Her raven coloured hair swung low on her back, long and shiny, a testament of borderline obsessive care. No one touched the silky locks without her specific permission and while also being clean; Carver, having tried many times to pull and muss it, was able to testify for this, and recalled the memories with winces of pain. She took time out of each day to have it brushed, often by her adoring sister or smiling mother. The girls from the village would often praise it, offering to braid it for her, finding pretty flowers to weave into the strands...

If she was asked to name her most prized possession, she would say her hair without hesitation. Even after she turned twelve, and was given her first mage's staff to begin training with, it remained that way. To her, what did magic matter when she couldn't flaunt it to gain the respect or approval of her peers? But her hair..._ That_ got her compliments. _That_ got her attention.

When the twins got to be of an older age, and she responsible enough to take them out alone, they'd often go on hikes through the nearby forest, together. Carver swinging his wooden sword, and Bethany picking flowers for their mother, while Marian would watch on with a protective smile. It was nice. They'd stop at a meadow that they'd named the Hawke's Nest, and have lunch there.

She remembered one day in particular clearly. She had been sitting in front of her sister while she carefully plaited her hair, humming a cheerful tune in the otherwise silent field.

"Marian! Bethany! Look over there!" Carver had shouted, stabbing his hand in the direction of the far side from where they were situated. Through the tall waves of grass and peaking through the tree-line stood a small rabble of four men, ragged and dirty in appearance. Normally, it wouldn't have been a problem. She would have told them where the Chantry was, and who to talk to get food and clothing and shelter, and her good deed of the week would have been complete.

If it weren't for the rusty daggers that glinted dully in the noonday sun or the shouting that erupted immediately after the Hawke siblings were discovered, that's exactly what would have happened.

"Carver, take Bethany back, now! Run!" she yelled at her brother, who instead stood frozen in fear as the bandits came close. There was no time to fool around; pulling Bethany up and pushing her towards the trees, she grabbed Carver's shirt and practically flung him after her. Picking her staff off of the ground, Marian felt a small sense of relief as she spun around to face her opponents. Her siblings, at the very least, would have time to run.

It was in those mere seconds that she would find that there was a mage in their midst.

A fireball hit the ground to her right, blasting her to the side before she had time to throw up a shield. The flames licked at her arm and leg, setting them ablaze with pain. Standing up with her staff as a crutch, she saw the three laughing and pointing at her; oh, what would a teenager with a pretty stick do, right? Her temper rose. Swinging the staff towards them in a sweeping motion, she watched as ice shot and spread, a cone of cold that froze them all in place.

And like that it was over. Marian panted as she leaned heavily on the worn wood. She would have to tell her father when she—

A sudden jerk at the back of her head flung her off balance and pitched against the chest of a smelly man, not much bigger than herself. The rogue had snuck behind her during the initial strike, and with tears welling up in her eyes at the harsh yanking of her braid, the mage realized she was stupid for not realizing the difference in headcount.

"Little girl, you really shouldn't have done that," he whispered in her ear, spewing his filthy breath into her face. She snarled in reply, raising a foot to try and kick him from behind. He pulled on her braid again, eliciting a yelp. "Pretty hair, magelet. Makes this easier."

For the first time in her life, she hated her hair. She could feel every strand being used against her, causing the sharp pain at her scalp, worse even than the blistered skin of her limbs. The smell of it burning stung at her nostrils, making her sick.

"Now, if you'll just tell me wh- Aah!"

He let go of her braid, and she fell to her knees at the sudden release. Looking over to the bandit, she found him struggling to stand straight, rubbing the back of his head while glaring at a figure standing away from them. Taking the chance, Marian threw out her hand, sending whatever magic came first at him; a bolt of ice struck the man, freezing him in place like his comrades before.

"Marian?" The voice of her brother called for her, and, leaving the disaster of a day behind, she scrambled to it.

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><p>After they returned home, and their father had further disposed of the bandits at the Hawke's Nest, Marian was bandaged and confined to bed until her burns healed. But before she allowed herself to sleep or rest, she demanded that Leandra bring her a pair of scissors.<p>

And so she cut it all off, leaving her once glorious, shiny hair all over the floorboards of her bedroom. She said nothing to her mother when the questioning look was given, and made no reply to Bethany's protests as she did it, leaving nothing but tufts of bangs at the front, and stopping at neck-length in the back.

Later that evening, as she lay curled up on her unburned side with tears in her eyes, Malcolm walked in and sat on the edge of her bed. The silence stretched between them for a moment before she felt his strong, farmer's hands run through her short hair gently, and his gruff whisper penetrate the quiet.

"_You're beautiful, Marian."_

She kept her hair short.


	14. Just To See

**Title:** 100 Themes Challenge #77 – _Test (Just To See)_

**Pairing:** Just Fenris~

**Word Count**: 720

**Summary**: Fenris is taking a walk, and decides to prove Merrill wrong. Frolicking doesn't make or break an elf. Nope. No it does not.

**Note**: _I like crack. It makes me happy. :X Prompt for this was given by somebody else lol. They told me grass, so I thought meadow, and frolicking, and then Fenris D; YAAY_

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><p>"<em>But do you frolic?"<em>

"_Of course we do! We wouldn't be elves, otherwise!"_

Fenris rolled his eyes as he recalled the conversation between the Merrill and Varric that he had overheard on a misadventure with Hawke to the Bone Pit. Pffft. Frolicking. Who said an act made the elf?

… Well, he wouldn't really know. He had never tried frolicking. At least, not that he could recall. Perhaps he had before he'd been brutally branded with lyrium and had his memory swiped clean… But that couldn't really count, since he didn't remember it.

The former slave continued his walk around Sundermount, relishing in the quiet of the early morning. He didn't even know why he was thinking about it. It was ridiculous. Another stupid idea from the crazy blood mage. Imagine that! He laughed at the empty air, but as his bare toes grew wet from the dew clinging to the grass, the laugh faded. Stopping in the middle of a wide meadow, he glanced around, looking for a sign of any others nearby.

… Nobody was there to see… What if he just… Tried it…?

He'd be lying if he said he didn't envy the freedom that the elf mage seemed to have. Not only was she unrestricted by her clan obligations, and had no master other than herself, there was an… Air, about her, that screamed independence and free-will.

"We wouldn't be elves, otherwise," he mumbled to himself, and took another look around. Still nobody… Okay. He would try it. But only to prove that she was wrong, and 'frolicking' was stupid, and he was always right. Just as it should be. He slung his sword off his back, laying it on the ground gently, and stared at the expanse of waving grass before him.

How did one even… frolic? Fenris assumed it was just skipping, which he knew involved a forward kind of hopping… Lifting one leg awkwardly, he stared at his dangling foot. Okay. So… Now… Hop? He jumped forward with the foot still in the air, feeling so stupid he didn't even have words to express. Why in the name of the Maker was he even trying this? But now he was fixated on winning, on being right. Alternating the raised foot, he hopped forward again, sending the droplets of water flying into the air as he disrupted their existence on the grass. That looked kind of right… Laughing in triumph, he leaped forward again, immediately repeating the movement. If he did it fast enough, he could feel the wind leaping through his hair, blowing it back from his face, making him feel lighter, sillier…

Who said all he did was brood all the time? Ha! He flung his arms out, swinging them as he skipped through the tall grass. He could do whatever he wanted! He was a free elf! He had no master, no one to tell him what he could or could not do! And if that included making the biggest fool of himself in his free time—yes, _his _free time—that was his choice, and no one could take it from him!

"_Fenris?"_

The voice made him to skid to a stop, but the wetness of the ground combined with his bare feet made it far too slick. "Waaaaa!" he shouted before slipping, his feet going into the air as he landed on his backside. His tailbone took the brunt of the impact, drawing a groan from him. He heard incoming footsteps, drawing closer at a rapid rate.

It was only a few seconds before he saw the bearded face of Garret and the red-headed Aveline bent over him, the laughter in their eyes threatening to spill over as they offered him a hand up. Embarrassment rising to turn his face beet red, he grumbled as he pushed their hands away, standing as quickly as he could. He made a feeble excuse to his presence there, not even questioning theirs, before marching back to Kirkwall with a brood cloud hanging over his head.

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><p>"So I heard you tried frolicking!" Merrill said as she sat down next to the warrior elf at the Hanged Man.<p>

Fenris scowled, sliding off of the bench before hobbling out the door to his mansion, ignoring the stifled laughs of Garret and company behind him.


	15. Making Distractions

**Title: **100 Themes Challenge #58 - _Kick In The head_

**Rating: T**

**Pairing:**F!Hawke/Isabela

**Word Count: **2,384

**Summary: **The Champion has become known for her increasing recklessness, even three years after her almost fatal duel with the Arishok and the departure of her pirate queen. What is to be done now that the Rivaini is back?

**Note: **_Set right at the beginning of Act 3, I would suppose, and in case you don't gather Hawke decided to venture into the Bone Pit on her own and take care of a dragonling problem. Isabela cleans her up after._

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><p>Bodahn no longer even questioned her when she appeared inside the Hawke estate, regardless of the time or manner in which she entered. The pirate rogue smirked, digging the tip of her dagger further into the wood of the banister, gauging out another notch of wood. She had arrived a little under half an hour before, surprised to find the estate empty of its master; when she had asked around the Hanged Man, the rest of their party had said the Champion should be home. There was no missions, no quests, no immediate dangers to worry about that day, as far as they knew.<p>

As far as they knew, so Anders had said with a side glance from Aveline. She had not missed the look, but chose mostly to ignore it. Hawke was home and that was that. The bullshit she had overheard before was just that. Bullshit.

Studying her carving for a moment, Isabela made a small 'hn' of approval. Let this be the warrior's punishment for disappearing without a trace. The crudeness of the 'art' would last until she replaced the whole banister, given how deep the design was, and her mark would be a continuous reminder of how impatient she got when depraved of what she wanted. And to think, all she was planning on doing was rewarding the Champion for her new ship of Castillion's…

_Thud._

Immediately the rogue settled into a battle-ready stance, tugging her other dagger free. It sounded like... Someone had slammed against the front door? Sneaking to the doorway that lead to the entrance room, Isabela felt unease settle in her stomach.

The door swung open suddenly, and with a crash, a tall, lanky form fell just inside.

"_Shit,"_the form hissed, unbuckling its protruding chest piece and throwing it aside before propping itself up on its hands and knees.

"Hawke!" Isabela gasped, darting forward from her hiding spot to kneel beside the fallen mage. Her hands grabbed her around the shoulders and pulled her into a kneel, and she felt a jolt of surprise when her hands came away bloody.

"Not all of it's mine," the beat up woman offered lightly, the shadow of a lopsided grin tugging at her lip before it stretched the split bottom, leaving her wincing. The pirate frowned at her, but pulled her arm over her shoulder and stood, dragging the Champion along with her. Her nose wrinkled as the smell of blood and burnt flesh struck her, with the distinct stench of dragonlings mingling. So the conversation she had eavesdropped on between a certain apostate mage and a captain had some truth to it...

"Can you walk?" she murmured softly, supporting most of the woman's weight. The mage nodded, and they began the slow process of moving towards the stairs. Isabela remained silent, gritting her teeth against her burden. Strong or not, the heavy, if minimal, pieces of armour the mage wore, plus the addition weight of the body they protected, weighed far more than she was used to carrying. It took time, sweat, and far too much blood lost to get Hawke up the stairs.

Setting the wounded woman on the edge of her bed, the pirate stared with pursed lips at the scratched and bloody face looking at her wearily. "I need to get And—" she began to say, turning on her heel.

"No!" the Champion protested, grabbing her hand with her own gloved one before gasping at the pain the sudden movement caused her, but did not release her. "I don't want him lecturing me aga…" she trailed off into silence for a moment, thinking carefully. "Lecturing me about infections."

"That's not what you meant to say," Isabela said, her brow creased in concern and mild frustration. Hawke looked to the side, shame bringing colour to her ashen cheeks. The rogue sighed and slid her hand out of the mage's, and began walking to the door. "I'll get the salves and bandages."

Closing the door softly behind her, she made her way hastily to the chest of questing supplies located by Hawke's desk, and kneeled to flip open the top. Injury kits, lyrium potions, stamina droughts… Resting her elbows on the edge and digging her palms into her eyes, she drew in a heavy breath. This was her fault, and she knew it.

"_She did it again, mage."_

"_Who did what, Aveline?_

_Isabela had been going to see the apostate to get help for a friend, when she had been surprised Lady Man Hands had already beaten her. Hiding by the shadowed entrance to his clinic, the pirate listened carefully, curious as to what the woman could possibly want._

_The guard captain crossed her arms across her thick chest, armour clanking against itself. "_It. _One of my patrols caught her on the Wounded Coast, fighting a group of bandits. On her _own_. She was outnumbered seventeen to one, and they had two mages. She could have _died. _She more than likely _would _have_ _died if my patrol hadn't intervened." _

_The rogue narrowed her eyes at this revelation; surely it wasn't true. Hawke wasn't stupid. She would never do something like that…_

"_What do you want me to do?" Anders replied exasperatedly. "She's been doing the same thing since _she _left."_

"_I thought you said it would stop when the slut returned!"_

'What?' _Isabela had thought, disbelief shooting through her. This was related to her, somehow?_

"_Well, obviously _not_. What do you want me to tell you, Guards Captain? All I can do is heal her. The last time I brought it up she just left."_

"_We can't just let her put herself in danger like this. She's going to get herself killed, all because of that stupid—"_

_Having heard enough, Isabela chose to walk in at that time with a bright, albeit fake, smile, hips swaying and swagger emanating just as usual. And that had been the end of that._

Collecting a mass of bandages and cloths, she piled potions and ointments on top of it, unsure of the extent of the wounds she would be treating. Stopping by the kitchen for a bowl and whiskey, Isabela began to step back up the stairs with her thoughts elsewhere, though something caught her eye on the rail. Looking down, she paused.

Her carving, meant as a reminder of the Champion's absence, was now smeared over in the sticky blood of the same woman. A grim smile tugged at her mouth as she continued. Oh, the irony.

Entering the room once more with a kick to close the door, the pirate set her supplies next to the still sitting Champion. Without addressing her patient, she quickly placed the bowl on the more stable night stand and filled it with a mixture of healing and disinfecting solutions and cloth to soak, back to the mage.

When she turned, the normally vibrant blue eyes looked up, dazed, blood still oozing from the cuts on her face. Isabela reached out to brush the sweat and blood soaked hair out of the mage's face, frowning. Hawke leaned into the touch, closing her eyes. The rogue's frown deepened. Cupping the woman's cheeks gently, she pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"What are you doing to yourself, sweet thing?" she whispered against the pale skin, the sharp tang of blood and sweat on her lips. When there was no answer she pulled back, her amber eyes sad and welling with emotions she didn't even want. The Champion's went to the side, avoiding contact. "Hawke."

"I…" the mage started, dropping her head so her hair fell back into her eyes like a curtain. Isabela felt a stab of anger and almost desperation hit her. Grabbing the mage's chin hard enough to make her wince, she forced her face back up and waited for their eyes to meet.

"_Marian." _

The Champion looked then, and Isabela almost wished she hadn't. Her eyes were full of emotions, some she could and some she didn't want to recognize. There was surprise and hurt and grief and anger and frustration… Desire and…

Love. There was love. The pirate was left speechless, unsure of how to reply. The blue gaze wavered, and again fell to the side. "I… I'm sorry, Isabela… I ju—"

"You're not sorry," Isabela corrected, and kneeled to begin unstrapping the plates of metal protecting Hawke's legs. "You're putting yourself in danger because you have this… This _stupid_ notion that it'll distract you." She slid off one boot, not looking up at the wary face watching her, and began on the next leg. "You're almost killing yourself because it makes you forget for a bit." Her voice was getting softer, and once the last armoured leg piece was gone, she crawled forward on her knees to reach for and undo the thick belts around the mage's waist and upper thigh, noting the side of her leg was badly burnt.

"Isabela…" Hawke said softly, her voice breaking around the name. The pirate shook her head, and grabbed at the mage's hand to gently pull off her glove.

"Because you don't know what to do about how you feel…" she continued, standing between the freed legs. Deft fingers undid the buckles securing the heavy shoulder armour on her right side, tossing it to ground once it was loose. The buttons at the front of the blue shirt were made quick work of, expanding the mage's collar, and her quickened breath did not escape the pirate. "Or you don't want to face it anymore." Stepping back to grab the solution-soaked cloth, the rogue slid onto the bed behind Hawke, gently pushing the shirt down off her shoulders to see the damage at her back.

"I'm not a coward," Hawke hissed weakly while staring blankly at her remaining gauntlet as she took it off, muscles tense as the pirate dabbed gently at one of the deeper cuts, clearing the area of the sweat and dirt and blood.

"I know you're not," Isabela replied with a half smile. "Just… Stupid." Silence stretched between them as she cleaned the worst wounds, the mixture she made driving away infection and encouraging blood coagulation. The mage's back and left side had taken the most damage, with deep gashes from dragonling claws draped over her upper back and burns to her leg and shoulder. With her refusal to visit the apostate healer, the rogue knew little else than to clean and wrap her injuries and to apply the gauzy material to the burns loose enough to let them breathe.

Once more at the Champion's front, she swabbed lightly at one of the cuts on her cheek, not looking into the eyes she knew were expecting hers to meet. As her ministrations came to the bloodied lip and the cleaning away of the residual blood from its split, she read, rather than heard, what broke the silence.

"I love you," the mage blurted out against the fingers at her lips, desperation riding her exclamation. Immediately regret for her outburst flittered across her features, and she began to stammer for another apology. "That's not what I meant to sa-"

Isabela silenced the mage with a kiss unlike most of the others they frequently shared. She wasn't demanding or lustful or controlling, and the difference shocked Hawke. The gentleness as their lips moved together wasn't something she thought she would ever find from her pirate, and her heart cracked a little more. It was her wince as her split lip began to bleed again that broke them apart, colour in her cheeks as confusion lit the other's eyes.

"I know that, sweet thing," the rogue whispered in the sparse space between them, but she found fear forming a lump in her throat, making it hard to say what she was thinking. Looking at her lover's blue gaze, her chest clenched at the raw emotion that shone through, hurt glazing the rest before she broke the contact. "I think…" she started, swallowing down the hesitation.

"I think I've fallen for you."

A moment of silence stretched between them, and the urge to run away almost overpowered Isabela. Taking a step back, she tried to fumble for an excuse to leave, a way to escape and retreat back to her ship and sail away from these damn feelings. But she didn't get any further than the one step.

Hawke stood from the bed, unsteady on her feet, and reached out to grab Isabela's shoulders. She pulled her back into another kiss, eliciting a soft sound of surprise from the pirate. It was hard and rough and raw, and it conveyed years of silent hope and love and it created something warm and light in Isabela's chest.

And yet it was ended as the mage grew light-headed and fell back onto the bed, almost dragging the pirate down on top of her.

"Sorry," she apologized breathlessly, a smile ghosting her lips. The Rivaini shook her head, and nodded towards the pillows.

"Lay down, sweet thing. You're in no condition to be celebrating yourself right now." Ignoring the pout she was given, Isabela helped the raven-haired woman to slide back onto the coverlet and rest her head back onto the burgundy set, sitting on the edge of the bed next to her. She ran her fingers up and down the mage's arm, contemplating silently as her lover waited, just as patient as she had always been.

"I…" she started, biting her lip. Her hand was captured by that of the mage, and was squeezed reassuringly. "I didn't lie. But I'm not… I don't know… I don't know how to do this kind of thing, Hawke," she confessed, her voice shaky. "I still need to get my feet under me."

"'Bela. Look at me, please." The words, though soft, held an edge of demand. Amber flicked up to meet blue, unsure and more vulnerable than she had ever planned to be. "Just promise me one thing, okay? And I'll give you all the time in the world."

The pirate furrowed her brow in question. "I… What's the promise?" she asked cautiously.

"Don't leave without me."

Surprise widened her eyes, and a smirk overtook her frown. She leaned down to hover over the mage, breaths mingling.

"I would never even think of it."

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><p><strong>AN: <strong>this one is longer than usual, but meh. : it's inspired by Bagoflimbs's work, Injuries. :D Go check it out on deviantart.


	16. Sometimes

**Title:** 100 Themes Challenge #63 – _Do Not Disturb __(Sometimes)_

**Pairing:** Marian/Isabela

**Word Count**: 746

**Summary**: Sometimes, Hawke forgets the Hanged Man is still considered a public venue, as much as she claims it as her own.

**Note**: Wrote this to a piece of art work! Hawke and Isabela by hikachuu on deviantart! Go check it out. -heart-

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><p>Sometimes, Hawke forgot that the Hanged Man wasn't a private place, that she was open to observation of the general public of Lowtown when she was approached by her rogue in its walls. Normally, most of the patrons were absorbed in their own activities, so the fleeting touches and teasing kisses and bites shared between the two women were, for the most part, overlooked.<p>

But, other times, they got a bit… Carried away.

It had been a strenuous day for Hawke— her title as Champion had led to her required presence in a long, grueling meeting between Kirkwall's upper tier of authority, though why, she would never know. The mage was unable to make her opinion heard, despite her several attempts, and eventually she had been subjected to just sitting in her seat to the right of Elthina, joining the Grand Cleric in silence. By the end, she had been reduced to picking at the feathers of her champion's armour, contemplating their use.

As soon as she could escape, she did, speeding through the broad, open courtyards of Hightown until she slipped into the shadowy back alleys that led away from the politics and formalities that the noblewoman had grown to hate. The wooden depiction of a hung man eventually creaked above her as she paused in front of the tavern's entrance, the salty wind from the harbour stinging her face with cold. Already she could hear the rabbles inside— was it really that late? Or maybe it had been an early start for the Hanged Man's attendants.

Pushing the door in, the wave of hot air, loud shouting, and the rancid smell of booze and vomit hit her all at once. And somehow, it still felt more like home than anything else she knew. The mage heard her name called, and after a moment tankards and bottles rose into the air as it was cheered— they didn't really care for her, at the moment. But an excuse to drink more was always welcomed. She shook her head, and made her way (stepping around a pool of vomit, a groaning man, and a questionable looking bundle of something) to the bar.

Corff was already waiting there with her usual whiskey. She gave him a strained smile as she took her usual seat at the bar stool closest to the wall, sliding a sovereign across to him. Plenty enough to cover her tab for the night…

"Hey there, sweet thing," came a low purr just behind her ear. Some of the heaviness that had been dragging on Hawke's shoulders lifted at appearance of her pirate, and a true smile tugged at her lips. Twisting in her seat, her bright blue eyes sought the warm amber of the rogue.

The Rivaini, noting the underlying exhaustion and irritation beneath the cool facade her lover exuded, disregarded the stool neighbouring Hawke's in favour of stepping between the mage's knees, pressing as close as she could despite the bulky pieces of armour. Ignoring the starts of protest, Isabela pushed her back until she was practically reclining into the bar, and rose up on her toes to crush her lips to the Fereldan's, hands bracing herself on either side.

Hawke put her gauntlet-enclosed hand over the pirate's, her other gravitating to the dip of her waist before rising up along the side of the corseted bodice. She couldn't help a soft moan as her lip was pulled and sucked on, leaving her mouth open to be plundered directly after. Her fingers were instinctively beginning to pull on the laces at the rogue's front, need distracting her from her own troubles and the setting of their current interaction.

"_Oh_ for the love of Andraste's _tits_would you two get _off_the bar and use the_room_ the whore has for _these_ kind of things?"

Isabela pulled back from their kiss to glance over her shoulder, lips parted as she panted lightly, at the glaring apostate mage, who was sitting at the typical Hawke party table with the rest of their group. The others looked away and back down at their card, caught in the middle of a game of Wicked Grace. Hawke just stared at the blonde man, unsure how to react— embarrassment, indignity, indifference?

"Just because you're _jealous,_Sparky, doesn't mean you have to go and ruin_my_fun," the pirate drawled over the ruckus of the tavern. Anders noticeably flushed, but Hawke missed it as she was tugged off her seat and towards the back rooms, and more important, the mattress that made up Isabela's bed. "Let's go, Hawke. I think you're in need of some _distracting._"


End file.
